


Under the shade I flourish

by migraine_Sky



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Belize - Freeform, Blow Jobs, CIA agents - Freeform, Drug cartels, M/M, Pre-Skyfall, Prostitution, Tropics and heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/migraine_Sky/pseuds/migraine_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Skyfall. It’s 1990, and James Bond, still a British Navy Intelligence Officer, is being sent to a combat training course to Belize. One Saturday evening at a bar he meets a man who introduces himself as Raoul but whose real name (as well as the man’s profession) Bond can only guess.</p><p> </p><p>  <img/></p><p>Soundtrack: http://8tracks.com/migraine_sky/under-the-shade-i-flourish</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В тени я процветаю](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017945) by [migraine_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/migraine_Sky/pseuds/migraine_Sky)
  * A translation of [В тени я процветаю](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017945) by [migraine_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/migraine_Sky/pseuds/migraine_Sky). 



 

 

 

_Sub Umbra Floreo_  
_(national motto of Belize)_

There was just a few seconds left before collision.  
James grabbed the hand-rail tighter, looking through train car window at the other train moving towards them. James was the only one, who saw it, or so it seemed - other passengers were calm, sitting motionlessly. He probably should have shouted something, drawing their attention, tell them to move away from the windows and grab hold of something, but James only clenched his fingers around the metal rail, staring at the silent train hurtling at him.  
A strong push, a loud noise of grinding metal - and James woke up sharply on the narrow bunk in his cabin. The ship groaned with metallic voice, shreds of conversations and loud stamping of feet were heard behind the walls.

The ship has finally reached the land.

 

 

 

 

‡ ‡ ‡

 

Belize, a country roughly the size of Wales and with a population half the size of Edinburgh, was freed from colonial shackles of British Empire in 1981. The country felt rather insecure without these shackles: neighboring Guatemala clearly wanted to get its hands on this modest Caribbean jewel – so Belize asked UK for assistance. By the end of the 80-s the gravity of the situation decreased, politicians were talking about moving the British troops out of Belize in a couple of years. But in the meantime, in 1990, there were about 1,500 British soldiers present. The soldiers were mostly hanging out around the pools, used numerous Puma helicopters as their personal taxis to the beach and were frequent attendees of bars and brothels.

Bond’s training course suggested intensive training "in extreme conditions" for two months; however, while sipping quite tolerable Belikin - noticeably monopolized Belizean beer - James was becoming more and more confident that boredom and idleness is more likely to be extreme here. He signaled the bartender for a second bottle of beer, slapping a colored note on the table. The word "dollar" next to the Queen’s portrait on the bill looked surreal.

Military base Airport Camp was situated near International Airport, just a dozen miles away from Belize City. So by the second night of their stay in Belize James knew the location of all strategically important sites in the district of the former capital, including the "Raoul’s Rose Garden": the most famous local brothel. Judging from the stories, this place was far less sophisticated than its name could suggest - and James didn’t hurry to join the crowd of sweaty drunken sergeants, sipping warm, overpriced beer in a stuffy room of the hacienda and risking their health, perhaps, no less than on the battlefield. However, now and then Bond followed women in the bar crowd with a hungry gaze.

After a while he noticed that he was a subject of an undivided interest, too: he felt someone’s eyes on him, turned his head and saw a young man, leaning his back against the far end of the bar counter and looking at James intently. Bond didn’t limit his sexual interests with gender prejudices, already accustomed to the life of Her Majesty’s naval officer with rare and brief stopovers in port, where no one got a chance to be too picky. But the young man didn’t have the languid scrutiny of port whores in his eyes; and James turned his head back to his beer, though the observer could have already noticed his brief interest. The stranger obviously belonged to the Spanish-speaking part of the population - which was approximately half the population of Belize, but in this bar was giving way to the black Garifuna people who were communicating noisily in Kriol, which seemed to be some sort of English evolved beyond recognition. Bond quickly glanced at the guy again. He was slender but strongly built, with dark hair that could be gathered in a very short ponytail, his catchy shirt was half unbuttoned, revealing a nearly hairless chest and strong neck – like one of a boxer or a rugby player. He looked about twenty years old, not older than James himself. The stranger slowly pushed himself away from the counter and approached, stopping really close to James and unceremoniously staring at him with dark eyes shining beneath thick black lashes. Bond gave him a questioning look, and the man suddenly smiled sweetly, rolling his shoulders.

“First time in El Divino? …Because I would have remembered you,” he said with an accent thick as honey.

Bond smiled, took another sip from his bottle. Well, at least that wasn’t the worst pick-up line he had ever heard. He moved a bit to face him and replied rather friendly:

“Two days ago arrived at the camp.”

“Airport Camp?”

James nodded and the man bowed his head affirmatively too, as if satisfied with the answer.

“You're almost an hour here, at the bar, and still standing all alone?” he arched an eyebrow flirtatiously and leaned a little closer. “Thirty bucks - and I 'll give you a blowjob you’ll remember for all your life.”

A whore after all. That was a little unexpected: Bond was rarely wrong when guessing people’s area of occupation, as a proper intelligence officer should be. But there was something really intriguing about this man, perhaps, this fact that James couldn’t figure him out right away. Bond was becoming more and more interested, though his voice sounded indifferent when he asked:

“That’s a bit overpriced, isn’t it?”

He was already familiar with the prices of the mentioned Rose Garden: for thirty dollars one could get a "full course hump".

“You get what you pay for,” purred the stranger with the promise in his eyes and licked his full beautifully defined lips.

Bond’s eyes involuntarily followed the movement of his tongue.

“All right, I'm willing to check whether it’s really worth it,” he said almost to his own surprise.

The man smiled and gestured Bond to follow him, moving through the crowd. James could already imagine the following scene: the backyard of the bar, or some alleyway, that probably smelled not the most pleasant way, a hard surface of a wall, cutting into his back uncomfortably... but all this didn’t really matter; alongside with sluggish relaxation from beer and sweltering heat James could feel the pleasant anticipation beginning to stir his blood.

The man took him to a staff area door, but instead of walking out into the street, they found themselves in a small room with a couch, that looked surprisingly clean for a place like this. The stranger pushed James down on the seat playfully, and Bond pulled the man down with him, making him straddle his lap, face to face.

“If you forgot, we were talking about a blowjob,” the man grinned, looking at Bond from under the strands of overgrown bangs, his large palm lightly brushing Bond’s neck.

“Well, can I at least _touch_ for my thirty bucks?” the officer’s hands slowly stroked the other man’s sides. In fact, he decided to check the Latino for any weapons: not out of real suspicion, but rather because of the professional paranoia that recently has begun to appear in his behavior. But anyway, to feel the flexible hot body under his fingers after a long abstinence was good on its own.

However, he didn’t manage to move his hands below the waist: the man deftly slid off his lap and kneeled on the floor, in a cat-like movement rubbing his cheek against the inside of James’ thigh.  
“Maybe I’ll take twenty. If I like you,” he said, looking up with a predatory smirk and unbuttoning Bond’s pants.

“What’s your name?” James asked, noisily exhaling when a hand grabbed his cock confidently, and added: “In case _I_ like you.”

“Raoul,” he replied, and Bond didn’t have a chance to think, whether it was simply a false name, borrowed from a matchbox with the brothel advertisement, because Raoul dragged his soft lips against the tip of Bond’s cock, smearing a drop of precome and licking it away as if to taste. James gave a short demanding groan through clenched lips and unceremoniously ran his fingers through thick black hair, pulling Raoul’s face closer.

“And what’s your name?” breathing hot against the sensitive head, the brunette asked and looked up at James with overly attentive eyes; then not waiting for the answer he took Bond's cock into his wide mouth.

“Officer Bond,” James muttered out of habit, squeezing his eyes shut from the sensation of his cock sliding on internal surface of the cheek; but remembering a second later that the situation was not very formal, he quickly corrected himself: “James.”

“Officer Bond?” sharply asked Raoul, unexpectedly stopping, releasing the cock from his mouth and looking up at James with mocking disbelief, as if he introduced himself as John Major* or someone like that.

“Is there a problem? Do you usually give head to no less than a lieutenant?” James asked, hiding behind the joke his own confusion.

Raoul rolled his eyes in clear irritation, but Bond saw brief anxiety flash in his features. Then, casting an appraising look at James, the brunette smiled again:

“I'll make an exception just for you,” he took Bond’s cock deep into his mouth, vigorously hollowing his cheeks, clearly not going to spend any more time on foreplay, and it became quite difficult for Bond to analyze anything anymore.

He threw his head back, gasping, thrusting his hips forward and feeling Raoul swallow convulsively around the head, then looked down.

Dark attentive eyes were searching for the slightest reaction, studying James as a laboratory rat. Under this penetrating gaze James suddenly felt uncomfortably naked and defenseless, but he couldn’t look away. In a weird way this stare turned the tables, reversed their roles, took control away from James, and it was strange but shockingly hot.

When Bond, still panting a little, got up from the couch, Raoul looked at him the same overly intent way, his face annoyingly smug.

“Keep the change,” James handed him a fifty dollar bill. “I don’t have exact change anyway.”

Raoul seemed to look surprised for a moment; he dismissively waved his hand and flipped back unruly strands from his eyes.

“Pay me next time,” he grinned and slipped out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

‡ ‡ ‡

 

The unbelievably loud buzz of cicadas didn’t stop for one second. With each breath heavy moist air filled Bond’s lungs, and James couldn’t distinguish anymore whether it was sweat running down his temple or moisture from the air. He hated guard duty the most of all duties at the Airport Camp. Although they haven’t yet trained in the jungle (their first training mission was to take place the next day), Bond was already sure that even that must be more enjoyable. Standing two three-hour shifts in the heat was a torture, especially while wearing bloody OGs - hot and tight Olive Green uniforms that limited movement. However, it sure helped to train soldiers into carrying out all meaningless orders without hesitation.

Bond noticed approaching Stanley and glanced at his watch: his shift was finally over. But he was in no hurry to leave; Stanley effectively used his rank of aide-de-camp to be the first to know about all the news and rumors which already earned him a nickname ARSE (or Army Rumour Service). James took out cigarettes sharing with the aide-de-camp. The man began with the weather (commenting on the obvious), but then exhaled tobacco smoke briskly and asked:  
“O'Brien said, you were in El Divino the day before yesterday? Did you see the mess Davis made then?”  
“Who the hell is Davis?”  
“Davis, our combat training consultant on "the local climatic and social conditions", remember? Talked about cyanide in cassava* at the lecture on our first day.”  
“Oh, that blond American guy?”  
“Yes. I've recently confused him with you. Called him out from a distance, like, hey mate, a cigarette to spare? - he turned around, keeping his face straight but angry as a... I thought he would complain to Norton about the lack of discipline again.”  
“So what happened at El Divino?” James reminded.  
“Davis started a gunfire, smashed three bottles of imported rum and didn’t even pay for it, they say. Stated that someone was trying to rob him.”  
“I must have been gone by then. Was anyone arrested?”  
“No, the man escaped.”  
“Davis must be truly a high-class specialist in local society then, if he needs a gun to keep safe from thieves,” Bond smirked, putting out the cigarette’s fire with his shoe. He nodded Stanley a goodbye and walked towards the blessed shade.

 

\---

*John Major - the Prime Minister of the UK from 1990 to 1997.

* Cassava - a plant with roots that resemble potatoes, the third-largest source of food carbohydrates in the tropics. It must be properly prepared before consumption. Improper preparation of cassava can leave enough residual cyanide to cause acute cyanide intoxication.


	2. Chapter 2

It was Sunday, and James strolled down a narrow street searching for a bar called “El Cajón del Diablo”. It turned out to be a place not so easily found: passers-by, whom James asked for directions, only looked at him in bewilderment, as if he asked them about some Devil's box indeed and not for a bar. As he was walking further away from the coast, more buildings descended from piles arranged in case of floods, concrete houses lined up along the streets instead of wooden ones. In this area you could still hear punta* playing loudly through the dusty tape-recorders at tiny shops entrances, mixing into the sounds of signaling cars and the roar of scooters, but there was already no overheated tourists, sticky with sweat and sipping greedily sweet water from green coconuts through a straw. James would gladly pay an unfairly big price for such a coconut, which the tourists were paying – he was thirsty, the heat was overwhelming and the sun burned his neck mercilessly.

After a four-day operation in the jungle, where the soldiers were losing gallons of water every day and suffered from hungry mosquitoes, just to sit at a bar with a bottle of beer was all you could dream of. But James left the beach long before his mates and was looking for this damn bar because of slightly different interests.

Upon his return from the jungle he learned - from Stanley, of course - that while James and his comrades perfected the art of hacking the local flora with machetes, trying not to get the black poisonwood* juice all over themselves, some of the soldiers from their camp were collaborating with Belizean police.

The crime rate in Belize was high: the newspaper reported shootings, murders and kidnappings every day, so the police often hired British troops to help them with especially complex operations. This time it was some important American businessman, who was abducted for ransom; but what caught Bond’s attention was the fact that their consultant Davis, who was often seen at the camp, seemed to play an important role in the operation. Since local police obviously needed no consultants, Bond quickly realized that most likely Davis was working for the CIA. Bond, as one of the most committed and diligent officers, was treated with respect and significant amount of trust by his superiors; so it took him next to no time to confirm his suspicions. Of course, it wasn’t something out of ordinary –  Bond was just happy to apply and develop his intelligence skills once in a while.

However, soon this story proved to be more complex than it seemed to be originally. Saturday evening Bond was spending at El Divino again. Having finished his first beer, James started to chat with the bartender and asked casually about Raoul (after all, as a decent officer, Bond had to return his debt). The snow-white smile instantly vanished from the Belizean’s face.

Prostitution in Belize was legal, although engaging in any kind of pimping, whether you owned a brothel or simply allowed hookers to look for costumers at your bar, was a criminal offense. Bond knew that in reality these laws didn’t seem to work, bars and brothels flourished in plain sight of the police and the authorities; so there should have been no reason for the bartender’s panicked claims that he never knew any Raouls. As friendly as it was possible for James, Bond explained that he really needed to return Raoul some owed money (and, as if deciding just in case to illustrate the concept of "money", he slid a colored note on the table towards the man). Looking around with uncertainty, the Belizean hesitated, but then grabbed the bill, grimly stating that if Mister wanted to shoot at bottles again, he could try his luck at the bar El Cajón del Diablo.

After receiving the address, James nodded his thank-you and walked out of El Divino quite certain of the fact that not only Stanley occasionally confused him with Davis.

 

Bond nearly walked past the small inconspicuous sign. Inside, the bar was quiet and empty, only an old fan rustled in the corner of the room; it was too early for the bar regulars, and it seemed unlikely that any tourists ever appeared here at all. No one was present behind the bar counter either. James craned his neck, peering into the open doorway of the staff exit, and knocked on the wooden counter. After a minute a black guy appeared in the doorway, staring warily at Bond, as if the officer had walked into someone's living room without invitation. James greeted him cheerfully and asked for a beer – the man shook his head, explaining that the bar was closed.

“All right, I'll just wait till it opens then,” said Bond patiently, taking a seat.

“No, we closed today all day,” vigorously repeated the Belizean. “Refrigerator don’t work.”

“ _Weh di goan?_ *” a voice that seemed familiar to James called from the depths of the house.

“Is that Raoul?” Bond asked quickly, standing right up. The Belizean looked towards the door nervously, then back at James; and Bond raised his voice a little: “Raoul!”

In the doorway appeared the latino, looking rather tense and holding his right hand behind his back. He grinned when he saw Bond, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

“Hello, James,” he leaned casually on the counter with both hands, turned his head to the Belizean: “It's all good, you can go, Uganda, _si yoo lata_ *.”

As soon as the man walked out of the room, Raoul tsked and shook his head slightly:

“I knew that this fool Mefe can’t keep his mouth shut…”

“Well, you promised me a next time and didn’t even leave an address,” Bond smiled mockingly sweet, leaning on the counter, too. “And I don’t like to be in debt.”

Raoul sighed audibly, rubbed his nose bridge with two fingers and smiled slyly, looking at James from beneath his hand.

“James, don’t want to disappoint you, but I'm not actually a whore.”

“Oh, right, you just get acquainted with new people by offering them a blowjob.”

“Can happen to anyone,” Raoul replied sarcastically, throwing his hands up in a wide gesture.

“So what do you actually do? Work at this bar? Or maybe you rob people - like for example Davis, with whom you had me mixed up?” Bond looked defiantly at him, and Raoul’s friendly face expression changed instantly.

For a few seconds he stared at the officer, as if hoping to read on his face what exactly did he know, then jerked his chin up and said gravely:

“I am neither a thief.”

Bond, of course, had no reason to believe him; but something told him that was the truth, and the situation was much more complicated.

“Then try to explain why Davis wanted to shoot you.”

“Mmm, I see you like to dig up dirt about your co-workers,” Raoul smiled grimly.

“So far _you_ are the person who seems kind of dirty to me, so it’s in your best interest to tell me why I shouldn’t inform Davis about your whereabouts.”

“Do you think he can’t go to Mefe and get the same answer you did? You know, in a small town like Belize City it’s not a problem to find someone. The problem is to be able to hide yourself afterwards. You picked wrong time and place to threaten me.”

Bond knew it too: Raoul was at home and didn’t really try to hide his Browning HP* tucked behind his belt. James was alone and unarmed, except for the KA-BAR* he won playing cards with one American soldier - Bond didn’t ever go out to the streets without this knife. He stared the latino in the eyes expectantly.

“You probably think you know who Davis is?” Raoul’s threatening tone suddenly changed to a mocking one, the tension in his figure unexpectedly subsided. “You think he's from the CIA, don’t you?”

Bond just stared at Raoul, waiting for an explanation. Which, however, didn’t follow.

“Look,” Raoul rubbed his face and threw aside overgrown strands of hair from the eyes. “There is a Belizean saying: _yuh gat yuh han eena tiga mouth_ *. Very suitable to your situation here. So get out.”

James wasn’t the type to give up in front of a locked door, but if there was a wall instead, only a fool would hammer at it with his bare fists. His lips curled in displeasure, but three seconds later he pushed himself off the bar counter and headed for the exit.

“ _Si yoo lata_ , Raoul,” Bond muttered without looking back, and slammed the door behind him.

 

When Bond crossed a wooden bridge across the last stinking channel and walked out into the sea front, it was already dark. Beach bars gleamed festively, and people were drawn to the light like nocturnal insects, whose rustling, alongside with other strange sounds of a tropical night, was muffled by music. James went to a narrow strip of beach sand and then up the wooden stairs onto the planks arranged underneath a sunshade made of palm leaves. He ordered rum and swallowed the shot in one gulp, still bothered with his inconclusive visit to the downtown. He thought of taking a taxi back to the camp – tomorrow morning they were going back into the jungle – but there were still ten and a half hours until the dawn. So he ordered more rum and two shots after he already had his arm around some beautiful girl’s waist, who seemed ready to make the officer happy for quite a modest sum. But when they walked down from the platform onto the sand, Raoul suddenly appeared right in front of them.

“James, I have a business proposition for you,” he offered quickly in a friendly tone, which looked very strange, considering the circumstances of their today’s meeting.

“Are you stalking me?” Bond frowned, his movements far more relaxed than he would have liked. “If your offer is another blowjob, I have already found a business partner for tonight.”

“How much?” Raoul asked the girl, ignoring Bond’s snide remark.

“Twenty. Two of you – the price doubles,” the girl warned, crossing her arms on her chest.

Raoul handed the girl twenty bucks, waving her goodbye with one hand, the other grasping Bond’s shoulders. The girl was gone in a second; and Bond pushed Raoul violently, obviously going to replace the ruined shag with a fight.

“What the fuck, Raoul!”

“First of all, my name is Tiago, Tiago Rodriguez,” throwing his hands up in a calming gesture and restraining in his own temper, said Raoul quietly; and James involuntarily calmed down just a bit from this unexpected (even though completely useless to him) frankness. “Secondly, you did want to know who I work for. And probably would like to find out who Davis really is.”

Bond took a deep breath, returning himself to a more peaceful mood.

“You didn’t exactly _hurry_ to tell me this today. What changed your mind all of a sudden?” He knew it was too late to hide his interest from Raoul – _from Tiago_. They started walking along the shore, to get away from the noise and music.

“That was three hours ago, and a lot can change in a man’s life during that time.”

“So what changed?”

“I need your help,” Tiago answered directly, and James reluctantly admitted that this honesty was a very effective tactic to get into someone's favor. “And also sex.”

“Sex,” echoed Bond in amused disbelief. “Are you trying to tell me that you want to exchange information for sex?”

“What’s so strange about that?” Tiago just raised his eyebrows innocently and smiled. “You are ready to pay for sex, and you’re not the only one who needs it. Relationships with women require emotional impact and, most importantly, time, with men – also time and here it gets you subjected to the risk of blackmail. Relationships are too complicated anyway. Whores – the same risk of blackmail… And you and I – we will have a great win-win agreement.”

Actually it sounded strangely logical and even attractive, but it couldn’t distract Bond from the key point of their conversation.

“What kind of help do you want from me?” Bond stopped walking and turned to face Tiago.

Tiago sighed, putting hands on his hips and seemingly wondering where to begin.

“I work for the CIA,” he said at last, and when James sneered in disbelief, calmly added: “I’m not an agent, I’m an informant.”

Bond crossed his arms on his chest, weighing what he had just heard.

“So what is your problem with Davis then?”

“I have information that Davis is a mole working for Las Tijeras*. Ever heard of them?”

James nodded. You had to be deaf not to hear that name while living in Belize City. Las Tijeras was a Guatemalan drug cartel, and its boss – Colunga Hernando Vasquez – was one of the biggest pain in the ass of the authorities and the CIA. In Belize Vasquez got nicknamed El Sisimito – during the first week of training Stanley told them that sisimito was a local Bigfoot. He had his feet backwards on his legs, so when you saw his traces, you would think he left the place for good, but in fact he could be standing right behind your back. El Sisimito was excellent at concealing his tracks, too: there was a price on his head for a long time to no avail.

“I am one hundred percent sure of my source, but I need to provide conclusive evidence to the CIA. And Davis is clever. He figured me out before I was able to get the evidence and tried to kill me, if you remember. Now he knows who I work for, or if he doesn’t yet, he will know in a couple of days. To get rid of me he doesn’t even have to look for me himself. He can simply tell CIA that _I_ work for Las Tijeras; and then, how do you think, will they believe me or will they believe Davis?”

Bond stood silently for a short while.

“But how can I possibly help you? I don’t work for the CIA.”

“You're an intelligence officer, James,” Tiago smiled openly. “Spying is your profession.”

Bond 's eyes narrowed; he looked away then, staring at the flickering lights of distant boats in the gaping black hole the night sea seemed to be.

“Looks like you're grasping at a straw, Tiago,” he finally said.

Rodriguez shrugged and grinned playfully, wrapping his arm around Bond's waist and pulling him closer.

“Maybe I am,” he mumbled into his ear in a soft tone. “But don’t lie that you’re not interested.”

James slid hands around Tiago with uncertainty, as if he couldn’t decide whether it was an embrace or a fighting grip. They were too similar, almost equal in strength and height, and Bond was unused to that. He felt some kind of instinctive need to be in charge. Tiago breathed hotly against his neck, hands slipping from the waist down, and James clenched his arms tighter, pushing him down onto the sand. He straddled Tiago’s thighs, placing his hands on the man’s chest and staring into his face, lit by the warm glow of the distant bar lights. Tiago calmly looked at him from under the lashes, but deep in his eyes some dormant power was lurking, like in the eyes of a fairy-tale dragon. He cupped James’ buttocks, pulling him closer, but didn’t even try to throw the officer off or take charge, and Bond suddenly knew that he wanted to bend this dangerous power to submission, wanted to play with fire. He quickly leaned down and kissed him greedily, tasting sea salt left on his lips by the wind. Tiago opened his mouth wide, arching under the weight of the other man, sliding his hands on Bond’s back, sucked on his lips, his tongue. Bond felt his whole body underneath, so responsive to affection, animal-greedy, and his fingers gripped the dark hair tighter, tongue licking in deeper, his second hand moving to squeeze in between their bellies down to the crotch.  
Tiago suddenly wriggled in a crocodile-like movement, clutching at Bond and rolling them around, pinning James with his weight and with a broad smile looking at slight discontent on the officer’s face.

“Your hands are all sandy,” he murmured softly in his ear, and nipped the lobe with sharp teeth.

“Intersection of Regent Street and Palm Lane, this Saturday, six o'clock,” he said then and deftly rose to his feet, smiled again and walked away.

 

‡ ‡ ‡

 

“The jungle looks like broccoli from above,” Stanley claimed looking down from the open cargo door of a Puma and trying to outshout the noise of helicopter blades.

“Hungry already?” Morris asked mockingly. “Don’t worry, Davis will sure as hell teach us how to fry some cockroaches or catch wild pigs today.”

“You should warn him that you can’t eat your relatives then.”

“Fuck you. You were the one squealing like a pig when that raccoon* woke you up. For some reason he thought it was a crocodile. Woke the whole damn camp.”

“There wasn’t much sleeping anyway, with you messing around with your hammock half the night,” Stanley didn’t need a special invitation to remind everyone the story: “Morris was almost eaten alive by the mosquitoes the last week. He was the one looking for a hammock place the longest, found the perfect place finally, secured the ropes, five feet from the ground, a showcase! Wrapped the mosquito net, covered it with rain poncho - and when he climbed into the nest, all goes slack, he scratches the ground with his ass, and there is enough space for whole division of these mosquitoes between the hammock and the net.”

“Don’t worry, next month the rainy season begins, so we will be sleeping under a waterfall. No mosquitoes to be bothered by,” Norton encouraged them, and the soldiers felt a bit down immediately.

“So who's the guy with Davis today? A second consultant?” asked Bond, taking advantage of the pause in conversation.

“No, some American photographer,” Norton answered. “Shoots the jungle for magazines. We were asked to give him a ride to the border.”

“The size of his bag is quite impressive,” James shared his observations. “With camera lenses then.”

“Yes, he barely got into the helicopter under the weight of these _advanced achievements_ of U.S. technology,” sneered Stanley, and James thought of a brand new Minolta, carefully packed into a waterproof container among his personal belongings.

This achievement of Japanese technology Tiago miraculously managed to deliver to Bond just before his departure from the Airport Camp. There weren’t any comments attached, as Bond knew perfectly well what Rodriguez wanted him to do, but first of all James had to make sure that neither Tiago nor his informant hadn’t made a mistake. Davis’ new companion, perhaps, would be able to contribute to that; because either it was a man with the most inconvenient bag for photo equipment, or he wasn’t a photographer at all. And thus there were two choices left: first one, Davis was a respectable servant of the law, just doing his CIA business. And the second – Tiago will have to fulfill his half of the deal quite soon.

 

\---

* Punta - is a Garifuna music and dance style. It was born in the 70's in Belize and then spread to Latin America and the United States.

* Black Poisonwood – a species of plant found in some Latin American and Caribbean countries. It can grow as a bush or as a tree, reaching up to 15 m in height and has a thin bark, which contains urushiol (oily organic allergen).

* Weh di goan? - (Belizean Kriol) What's going on?

* Si yoo lata - (Belizean Kriol) See you later.

* Browning HP (High-Power) - a 9mm, single-action, semi-automatic handgun, produced since 1935.

* KA-BAR - a combat knife, used in the United States Marine Corps and the U.S. Navy since 1942.

* Yuh gat yuh han eena tiga mouth - (Belizean Kriol, a proverb) Your hand is in the tiger’s mouth (meaning: you’re involving yourself into something dangerous).

* Las Tijeras - (Spanish) scissors.

‡ ‡ ‡

 

* He is talking about a coati - a diurnal mammal, native to South America, Central America, and south-western North America.

 


	3. Chapter 3

With each return from the jungle the city seemed more and more attractive to Bond. He was no longer irritated by narrow, jammed with vehicles streets that formed a monotonous grid (even without a main square with its usual attributes like the Cathedral or Town Hall). He was almost admiring the simple but welcoming wooden houses and carved railings of their balconies and terraces, while waiting at the crossroad of Regent Street and Palm Lane. An old Honda parked at the side of the road. Having noticed Tiago behind the wheel, Bond got into the car, which drove off immediately.

“Where are we going?” Bond asked instead of a greeting.

“To my place. Buckle up, I'm a bad driver,” Rodriguez warned.

“You got no belt here,” Bond looked at the Latino with a puzzled frown, only to discover that the man was laughing silently.

“James, you're too serious for a… how old are you? Twenty?”

“You look about the same age as me. So your patronizing tone sounds at least strange.”

“Well yes, guys our age are more concerned about not tumbling out of college or where to go out on a Friday night… And look at us, what are _we_ doing...” Tiago said philosophically and grinned, looking at James.

“ _We_ have obviously different occupations,” emphasizing the "we" sarcastically, said Bond. It was strange how quickly Tiago made them “one team”, but it must have been a national character trait. “Watch the road.”

“ _Pinche chingado_ *!” Rodriguez shouted through the open window as the car almost ran into a ditch darting from a motorbike that cut them up without looking.

Belizean roads in general resembled an obstacle course more than an actual road, and James breathed a sigh of relief when they finally parked near a small two-story house.

They went three steps up to an open terrace and right into the living room with an open-plan kitchen. The interior was reduced to necessary things only, like at a motel. But there was air conditioning that Tiago turned on before getting two bottles of beer from the refrigerator and handing one to Bond.

“You got lucky,” said James, opening the beer and sitting down on the sofa. “Davis came with a mate who needed to be taken across the border. They went away for a day, when we set up a camp in the jungle. I followed them. Afterwards some people seemed to be skeptical about me telling that I got lost, but it was worth it.”

Tiago sat in an armchair by his side and nodded impatiently; apparently, the news about Davis bringing an associate weren’t news to him. Bond took the camera out of his shorts pocket and put it on the table, then took out a small cylindrical box and handed it to Rodriguez.

“I processed the film. I have a set of the prints, too, just in case.”

Rodriguez quickly placed his beer on the coffee table, took the roll out of the box and pulled the tape, looking at the negatives.

“In this shot, for example, you can see Davis and his friend the photographer communicating with some folks on the border. They are sure working for some geographic magazine, judging by their M16*,” Bond commented sarcastically. “And in this shot you can see clearly what the photographer had in the bag. If you ask me, looks more like cocaine than camera lenses, but I’m not a photographer myself, may be I don’t understand something…”

“ _Hijueputa_ *, Davis lost all shame, transporting cocaine batches on British helicopters just like that!” Tiago carefully put the tape back into the box and looked at Bond. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t _dream_ of such a result of our little operation. What are you even doing in this hole? You have to work in MI6 or something!”

“I 'm actually going to. But all in good time,” James could not help the smug smile that appeared in reply to genuine admiration in Tiago’s eyes. “Well, now it's your turn.”

“Mmm?”

“Information.”

“What do you want to know now?”

“Why do you work for the CIA?” Bond narrowed his eyes.

Despite the fact that what Tiago told him about Davis seemed to be true, Bond still couldn’t begin to trust the man so easily.

Tiago sighed, took a sip from his bottle and leaned back in the chair.

“I was born in Mexico, Yucatan, in a big and wealthy family. How I found myself in Belize alone, without money or documents is a story I will tell you some other time, perhaps. Anyway, in Belize I had to earn for a living in any way possible. And you can easily guess what options I had. Belize is a major point in drug trafficking to the USA, tones of Colombian cocaine pass through the country to Mexico and then to U.S. border, plus Belize is one of the leading producers of marijuana. So here's the drugs, prostitution, money laundering… I got wound up in all that shit. When the CIA got me, I thought that was it. _El fin_ *. I wouldn’t have too many chances at survival in Belizean prison, if I made it there at all. Most likely, my "friends" would have got rid of me even before the trial, to keep me from telling anything to the police... But Martinez – a CIA agent – offered me another option: to become an informant. Though "offered" is a slightly wrong word here, it wasn’t like I could refuse,” Tiago smiled sadly, pinching the bridge of his nose to hide his eyes, and James looked away for a moment, feeling somehow uncomfortable. “No one in their right mind would want to become an informant. Being a criminal, you have to fear mostly the police, the justice. And when you become an informant, the CIA, or whoever it is, always promises you protection, but in reality you just become a potential target for _both_ sides – the law and the cartels.”

Bond turned the cold bottle in his hands, being silent for a moment, then asked:

“What will you do with Davis? You will turn him in to that Martinez guy, right?”

“We’ll see.”

“Don’t tell me you're going to blackmail him,” Bond glared at the man, and Tiago’s face showed that the officer probably guessed right. “He's gonna just kill you!”

“And why do you care exactly?” Tiago sneered.

“We have a deal, remember?” answered James with a smirk, but his tone clearly wasn’t cynic enough.

“Oh, how could I forget,” Tiago almost purred.

The familiar tense attention flashed in his eyes, and he rose from his chair, slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Bond involuntarily froze from this expected but at the same time sudden change of topic, just watching the fingers move down the buttons. Tiago slipped out of the shirt so gracefully, that Bond coudn't help but wonder briefly about the man’s previous occupations.

“I'm going to shower,” he said casually, leaving something playful only in the corner of his smile, and went down the corridor. “You can join me.”

James watched Tiago remove his pants on the way (a bit less gracefully) and disappear behind the bathroom door. Were his last words a joke or an invitation? Bond smirked and got up from the couch, getting rid of his shirt quickly. In any case Tiago already noticed that James took all his words seriously.

The bathroom had a surprisingly spacious walk-in shower. Tiago was standing under the streams of water – he turned his head, smiling at already naked Bond, his eyes so very dark under the wet eyelashes.

James has never been shy, he simply had no the reason to be. And Tiago – if he even could experience such emotion as shyness at all – clearly didn’t feel that way about his naked body: without the clothes he looked even more confident than ever. He was strong-built, yet flexible, his body being a body of a man who has to fight for his survival on a daily basis: all the muscles were on guard, even when he seemed to be relaxed.

James stepped under the shower, pausing for a moment to relish in the pleasant sensation of water running on hot skin, then took a step closer, pressing against Tiago. He ran his hands along the sides, fingers feeling the heat of the body, hotter than the water. Rodriguez turned to face him, sliding his hands on Bond’s shoulders. James pressed his hands to the man's sides a bit harder and felt Tiago flinch a little: out of the corner of his eye he noticed a huge bruise on his ribs, but Tiago pressed his mouth to Bond’s lips hastily, the kiss wide and voracious, as if James suddenly became the oxygen. Open lips slid sloppily to his chin and went back to his lips. Bond tried to move his hand away from the bruise, grabbing tightly at the slippery skin, catching and sucking on the soft lips, his tongue sliding deep into Tiago’s mouth.

“Do you want me on my knees,” Tiago murmured, kisses descending down Bond’s neck, tongue licking across the collarbone, and it was more of an observation than a question. “Do you want me moaning around your cock like a whore...”

And Bond felt his cock begin to fill and harden because of those words, because of that voice, but there was something else besides the dirty flirting in Tiago’s tone – as if some deeply hidden bitterness. The very bitterness that sometimes flashed in his eyes and made him look older than he actually was. James maneuvered him placing his back against the cool tiles, raised the heavy chin with his fingers, kissing him again, then licking the trickle of water up his neck and biting on the pierced earlobe.

“I have another idea,” James answered and followed the water flowing down his body, sliding to his knees.

He would like to see the surprised anticipation on Tiago’s face, but he seemed to be unable to turn his face away from the wet tanned skin, lips touching the edge of his ribcage, sliding down to the stomach, restless with frequent breathing, rubbing his cheek on a narrow line of coarse hair coming down from the navel. James grasped Tiago’s half-hard cock, sucked in the water droplets around the head, and finally looked at his face. Tiago let out a stifled breath, staring Bond in the eyes, and James swallowed him deeper, feeling the cock swell in his mouth. Tiago canted his hips forward, a bit hesitantly ran his fingers through short wet hair, and James began to bob his head in a steady rhythm, helping himself with his hand. The fingers in his hair tightened slightly at first, then stronger, interest turning into desperate need, and Tiago groaned through clenched lips, throwing his head back against the wall.

“James... please,” he muttered, his voice altered with desire, and Bond hollowed his cheeks, ignoring his own cock aching for attention because of this unfamiliar weakness, the surrender in Tiago’s tone. “Fuck me, James…”

Bond let the cock slip out of his mouth, continuing to jerk him off with his hand.

“First, I want to see you come,” he said hoarsely, and Tiago threw his head back again, unable to bear the intensity of Bond’s unnaturally bright eyes under the wet blond eyelashes.

Bond took him into his mouth again, and Tiago’s second hand cupped Bond’s chin, hips thrusting forward, a demanding groan stuck in his throat. James slid his free hand down Tiago’s tense abdomen, around the protruding hipbone and on his buttocks. Under the tender slide of his hand he felt the muscles tense and then relax, and the hand slid further, fingers feeling the sensitive area in between the cheeks.

“James!..” Tiago gasped, arching more, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing deeper into his mouth, forcing James to lean back a bit to avoid gagging. The wet finger slowly circled the ring of muscles and slipped inside. Arousal mingled with curiosity, Bond suddenly wanted to know what other reactions, what sounds he can elicit from Tiago. The finger went deeper in, sleeked only with water, but Tiago spread his legs some more, clutching at Bond’s shoulders tighter.

“ _Más, más_ *... James... please!..”

Bond added a second finger, causing another groan, his own cock twitching at the sound impatiently. In a particularly skilful way he swirled his tongue around the head, ignoring his sore jaw, and felt the muscles clench around his fingers. Tiago’s thighs and stomach were trembling slightly from the strain, abruptly his body jerked forward, and James felt the bitter taste on his tongue. Rodriguez pushed his hips a few more times, and his grip on Bond’s shoulders relaxed. Still Bond hollowed his cheeks and worked with his tongue until Tiago jerked not due to the echoes of his orgasm, but because of already painful sensitivity. James spat and rose to his feet, putting his arm around heavily breathing Tiago and kissed him, pressing his aching cock to the wet hot skin of Tiago’s abdomen. His second hand slipped lower to help himself with the situation, but Tiago clutched his hand stopping him and whispering in his ear:

“I want you to fuck me.”

James rubbed his face against his neck affectionately, turned off the shower without looking. They proceeded to the bedroom, almost getting tangled in the mosquito net that surrounded the bed and stuck to wet skin. They collapsed on the sheets, and Rodriguez hastily took lube and a pack of condoms out of the bedside drawer and leaned back, watching Bond from under heavy eyelids. James felt as if he became enchanted by this look, this languid, desperate thirst, burning beneath thick lashes. He suddenly found himself wanting to know everything about this person, to learn what guided his actions and his thoughts. Was it possible that Tiago was here right now, because he wanted to get rid of one particular feeling, so familiar to James – a feeling of being alienated from everything around him with nowhere to belong, surrounded only by strangers and foes?..

He put on a condom, moved closer, and Tiago rolled over to his side, turning his back to James. Bond’s callused palm swept across his shoulder, slipped to his chest and rubbed the tender skin of his nipple. Rodriguez turned his face away, trustingly submitting his strong neck, and James sucked on the skin, licked it up to the jawbone. His fingers slid over the ribs, brushing the bruise, and Tiago moaned faintly, arching back and rubbing his ass on Bond’s cock. Bond suddenly wanted to ask where this bruise came from or how did Rodriguez get his nose broken (clearly a long time ago), or to know the story behind the scars in between his shoulder blades. But he just sank his teeth into his neck carefully, feeling the vibrations of Tiago’s groan. Slippery fingers hastily squeezed inside, and Tiago moaned louder aching for more. James involuntarily clenched his teeth harder, muffling his own impatient moan, and scissored his fingers, feeling hot silky-smooth sleekness with his fingertips. Tiago clenched the sheets in his fists, hiding his face in the pillow and pushing back.

“Come on...” he groaned, and James abruptly pulled his fingers out and started to enter him as careful as he could manage at this point.

Rodriguez spread his legs wider, breathing audibly, and Bond went all the way in and stopped. Tiago blindly clutched at his hip, as if trying to press his body even further into him, and James began cautiously measured movements.

“Come on, James, damn you, fuck me already,” Rodriguez pleaded hoarsely, arching more in the lower back, pressing his chest into the mattress, and Bond thrust with all the strength into the tight hot channel, knocking out a breathy cry out of Tiago’s throat.

James moved back a little more carefully, but Tiago squeezed his hip close to leaving bruises. The second violent thrust he met just as greedily, and their movements have merged into a single well-coordinated rhythm, finally allowing both of them to stop thinking about anything but the heat of pleasure mixed with a torturing desire for more, always more.

When Tiago came for the second time, the clenching muscles caused James to follow; and after a deafening emptiness of pleasure he fell onto the wet sheets in blissful exhaustion.

 

‡ ‡ ‡

 

Tiago's car parked on the sidewalk of Belize City Chinatown, and Bond looked wonderingly out of the car window. When Tiago suggested they should go out to eat, Bond couldn’t imagine that they would go to Chinatown. The newly arrived soldiers were strongly advised not to go to this part of the town even during the daytime, but Rodriguez got out of the car and walked confidently to the nearby restaurant. Its owner’s name was one of the many examples of a strange mixture of cultures here – Diego Chen – and James followed Tiago into the restaurant.

The Chinese community in Belize was quite numerous, starting with wage workers, who came here in the 19th century to the sugar-cane plantations and were followed by further waves of immigration. The Chinese increasingly penetrated the local trade and service industry, and now any district of Belize City had at least one Chinese supermarket.

“ _Nǐ hǎo! Zěnme yàng?_ ”* Tiago spoke cheerfully to a waiter he seemed to be acquainted to, and the guy showed them to an unoccupied table.

“How many languages do you know?” Bond asked, sitting down.

“Well, Chinese doesn’t count. I can only bargain or curse at a taxi driver in Chinese,” Rodriguez smiled modestly, though he was obviously pleased to make an impression on James.

“That’s quite enough to go to China as a spy,” grinned Bond. “Can you choose something for me? I don’t know anything about Chinese cuisine.”

“Do you know at least how to use chopsticks?”

“No, I always eat just with my hands,” answered James sarcastically and smiled.

The second month of Bond’s training in Belize has just begun, making it their third meeting after tying up their ‘contract’, and James was already feeling inexcusably relaxed around Tiago.

 

“Davis has finished his introductory course, so we won’t see him in our camp anymore,” Bond glanced at Rodriguez, poking at his food. “How are the things going between you two?”

“No news so far,” Tiago shrugged and looked away.

“So you just left each other alone, for no apparent reason?” with obvious disbelief asked James.

“Sort of, for the time being... In fact, Davis is not my only problem right now,” Tiago smiled grimly with one corner of his mouth.

“Oh really.”

“As you know, the CIA collaborates with Belizean police, trying to stop the drug flow before it reaches the States. But given the corruption of Belizean government agencies, it doesn’t look much like a partnership: it’s similar to keeping a coyote instead of a dog. Just turn your back, and he'll eat all the chickens he is supposed to guard... So agent Martinez distributed 20 computers among the highest ranks of Belizean law enforcement agencies. Of course, there was no way for the officials to know that computers had bugs and keyloggers. But it’s not possible to deal with gangs and cartels the same way.”

“For that they need _you_.”

“Right. Me and a couple of dozen others,” nodded Rodriguez. “At first, my job was just to stick around and report to Martinez all I know. Time passed, I earned more and more trust. I installed the bugs, a couple of times even provided them with fingerprints. When I mentioned that I know a little about programming, they gave me a computer too. Drug lords, unlike the police, don’t need a database, but sometimes I still had something to hack into. Dozens of successful operations in two years – and here I am, tracking the cartels and the police network. To tell you the truth, I know a lot more than Martinez thinks I know. It’s really important for the informant to look more stupid than he actually is: too smart – too dangerous.”

“Well looking stupid is not your biggest talent, you’re too vain,” Bond involuntarily smiled but then became serious again. “So why are you telling me all this? Do you need my help again?”

Rodriguez sighed and flipped his bangs away from his face.

“No,” he said, staring at the floor. “Sometimes I think that I already lasted far too long on this job anyway... It's like a ‘fellow traveler syndrome’, James. It’s when you don’t hesitate to tell a complete stranger you met, for example, on a train your innermost secrets. Because you know that the journey ends soon and you will hardly ever meet again.”

James did not respond to his forced smile, just blinked and looked away, though his rational side immediately reminded him of all the studied materials about psychological manipulation and emotional blackmail.

“If I come across a talkative fellow traveler I pretend to be asleep,” he said, as if not recognizing the metaphor.

Tiago smiled, staring into his eyes, then sighed and turned all attention to his plate.

“Next weekend I am busy. You’ll have to find yourself another company,” the mask of carelessness was already back on his face. “How's the food?”

“Honestly I can’t tell if it’s fish or meat, but it’s very good.”

“What you have just put in your mouth – that was tofu. According to Chinese tradition, a good cook should be able to disguise one dish for another so that it would be impossible to guess what’s it made from. The most suitable cuisine for spies, don’t you think?” said Rodriguez and winked, appetizingly putting a large piece of god knows what into his mouth.

 

‡ ‡ ‡

 

June was the official month of beginning of rainy season in Belize. So far, Bond liked it much more than the ‘dry’ one: after the rain the air was fresh, the annoying insects were fewer (even though they didn’t disappear completely). Heavy and prolonged rainfalls occurred mostly at night, lasting at daytime not more than an hour, so if you weren’t ‘lucky’ to be caught up in the rain without a shelter or at least a raincoat, you had no problems at all.

That Saturday morning there were no signs of rain, the sun was drying out the puddles left from the night, and Bond sat with his morning coffee outside in the dining area of the camp. He was idly looking through a newspaper, making plans to join his colleagues in the usual visit to the beach, and later to the bar, where (as he with some reluctance admitted to himself) he wanted to see Tiago rather than have a drink. Last weekend Tiago was busy as he promised, and James was left to himself, looking at curvy attractive girls in a bar. The girls usually answered him with eager looks, but he caught himself trying to find something else in their eyes, something that could not be there. James left the bar alone, ending up with jerking off in the shower before going to bed.

The easy careless mood of the morning disappeared when Bond opened the “Events” page.

 _“Cassava poisoning caused death of three men in Belize City police station,”_ read the first title, and James stared into the text.

_“Belize City, June 16, 1990._

_Experts believe that the cyanide poisoning, that caused death of three men in the Belize Drug Enforcement Department, was caused by improperly cooked cassava._

_Jose Ramirez, 40-year-old  police Lt., died on the way to the hospital on June 14 around 8:30 AM. The other two victims, whose names were not made public by the police, were found dead at the site. According to our correspondent, the two victims were citizens of the United States.”_

Bond finished his coffee in two gulps and got up from the table. There were not so many Americans around the Belizean Drug Department. And there certainly could be no accidental deaths. James had to find Tiago quickly; somehow he was sure that the Latino was definitely connected to those deaths. Bond took one of the army jeeps from the parking lot, deciding that he would deal with such a trifle as a permit for military transport use later, and drove downtown.

He circled the narrow streets of Belize City for some time, casting attentive looks at familiar bars, which showed no signs of life under the merciless sun, and then turned onto a wide boulevard, found the right intersection and soon parked at the house he had visited only once – when he brought Tiago the film.

The house looked just as lifeless as the bars: the shutters were closed, and there was no sign of Tiago’s car nearby. James knocked on the door and after receiving no answer walked around the house and tried the door handle of the back entrance. It was locked. Without thinking twice, he broke the door open and went inside. The house was quiet and empty; Bond noted that at least there were no traces of a fight or break-in, and suddenly he was stopped by the sound of a cocking gun behind him.

“You were so eager to see me that you couldn’t wait till the evening, mhm?” the voice he heard seemed to be Tiago’s voice. James turned around and saw that it sounded strange due to an injury: his nose seemed to be broken again. Bond glanced at the giant bruise on his face, accompanied by scratches and abrasions. Rodriguez lowered his gun, and Bond noticed that his hand was trembling with fatigue.

“I read some interesting news in the paper this morning... about two dead Americans in the police station and a guy named Ramirez. Do you, by any chance, know the names of the other two?” the officer stared at Tiago.

The man sighed resignedly and slid down the wall, sitting on the floor: he seemed to be dead tired.

“Davis and Martinez.”

“Fuck, Tiago!” James spit out angrily. This was the response he was waiting for, of course; but after actually hearing it, he realized that deep down he had hoped for some other answer. “Killing them was the stupidest thing you could do!”

Rodriguez let out an almost silent nervous laugh.

“I didn’t kill them, James,” he said quietly.

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Tiago, everything is clear as day.”

“I did not kill _them_. Just Davis... Do you know what cyanide does to you? You die of suffocation. But not with the marks on the neck like the ones Davis has now. I suffocated him without any cyanide.”

Bond just stared at him, waiting for an explanation. Rodriguez looked down and sighed, as if gathering his strength.

“Davis arrested me on the 13th in the evening. I had hoped I still could manage to get away with it, but when Davis began the conversation by breaking my nose, I realized that I’m in deep shit. I was able to give the film to Martinez before that, but Davis was faster. He murdered Martinez and was going to blame it on me.”

“And the Ramirez guy?”

“He worked with Martinez. Apparently, Martinez had managed to tell him something. He tried to deal with Davis. The attempt cost him his life, but gave me a chance to escape.”

Bond snickered grimly. Perhaps it was about time to get used to the fact, that things were never the way they seemed with Tiago.

“The newspaper presented it as an accident. Nothing about you in there. Probably the CIA got to it first and started an internal investigation — at least they are not searching for you officially. Yet.”

“Yeah, I know, I hacked into their files. But it’s kinda early to relax. The CIA, in any case, knows that I have killed at least Davis. But most importantly, I am certain that Davis already turned me in to Las Tijeras.”

“So what now?” after a short pause asked Bond. “Are you going to just sit here and wait?”

“Hmm, and what options do I have? To flee the country? Ha, maybe I should take a ride on _La Bestia_ *, this Train of Death, as the Mexicans call it?” he chuckled sarcastically and tried to rub his nose bridge in an unconscious gesture, but jerked his hand away touching the painful bruise.

“Here the police will be looking for me, Las Tijeras will wait for me in Guatemala and Mexico, and in the United States _La Migra_ * and the CIA will welcome me with open arms. I’m popular just like Elvis fucking Presley!”

He pressed his hands to his temples, staring into space, as if only now he truly realized the hopelessness of his situation.

“Do you want to know what I think?” James said quietly. “You're already on the train, Tiago. On this train, you're my annoying fellow traveler, and as far as I know, my final destination is London.”

Rodriguez looked up blankly staring at Bond.

“Next Saturday a military plane takes off to England from the international airport. One of our majors had a nasty leg fracture, so...”

Tiago’s hysterical laughter didn’t let him finish.

“James, I think you have a sunstroke,” he said with serious expression, but then his lips stretched into an irrepressible smile again. “Do you have a headache? Maybe you have a fever?”

“The fact that you have a broken nose doesn’t prevent me from punching you. Listen to me, I'm serious.”

“Did you take Davis as an inspiration? May be, you will hide me in a suitcase to ship on the British plane?” Tiago still couldn’t calm down.

“Something like that,” with deadpan seriousness answered Bond, and Rodriguez finally choked on his laughter and stared at the officer. “We just have to find a ‘suitcase’ of a suitable size. And then I'll talk to my superiors.”

For a moment hope flashed in Tiago’s eyes, but then he looked away.

“This is insane. It won’t work.”

“It is my concern now to make it work,” James smiled. “You can call it another unofficial test for MI6 professional suitability.”

Tiago looked up at him again. This time there was another question in his eyes. Not whether this reckless undertaking would be successful but rather: “Why?”

Why does James want to help him at all?

But he did not say anything out loud, as if afraid that James might change his mind.

Bond involuntarily looked away. The role of the victim didn’t suit Tiago. Desperation of a cornered animal made him look dangerous and unrecognizable.

“So what happened to your nose? And the rest of your body?” Bond took a step closer, examining the various bruises on his skin. “You look like shit.”

“Nothing that I wouldn’t have survived,” answered Tiago cheerfully, allowing Bond to help him to his feet. “But if you want to play doctor, I'm all for it.”

James rolled his eyes, but could not help but grin in response.

 

‡ ‡ ‡

 

* Pinche chingado — ( Mexican Spanish, slang) something like “fucking shit”.

* M16 — American assault rifle.

* Hijueputa — (Spanish, slang) “son of a bitch” (short version).

*El fin — (Spanish) “the end”.

* Más — (Spanish) “more”.

 

* Nǐ hǎo! Zěnme yàng? — (Mandarin Chinese) “Hello! What’s up?”

 

* La Bestia (Spanish, “the beast”) — freight train, popular with illegal immigrants who travel on its roof to the United States.

* La Migra (Mexican Spanish) — slang term for Immigration and Customs Enforcement.


End file.
